Darkest Hour (45 page)

'Who?' Peploe asked. 'Don't you
think we should be speaking to their commanding officer?'

'Colonel Beart's been sent to
hospital,' said Blackstone.

'For God's sake, someone must
have taken over - Major McLaren. He was second in command yesterday. Sir, war
or not, it was an appalling crime that cannot go unpunished. I mean, damn it, I
thought we were fighting to stop the tyranny of the Nazis. Condone this and we
prove ourselves no better than they are.'

'Peploe, my dear fellow,' said
Barclay, attempting a more placatory approach, 'the Durhams have lost nearly
half their men. Their OC is in hospital and two company commanders are in the
bag. I hear Sixth Battalion has suffered similar losses. How well do you think
it will go down if we march in there accusing their men of slaughtering forty
Nazis - and, let's face it, they were all
SS men, the very worst of the worst. I know this
probably sounds a bit cold-hearted but, personally, I can't help feeling the
world is better off without them.'

Tanner saw the flush in
Peploe's cheeks. The lieutenant's jaw tightened and for a moment Tanner
wondered whether he should simply steer him away before he did something he
might later regret.

'Shame on you, sir,' said
Peploe at last. He swallowed hard. 'Because we are at war and because of the
situation we find ourselves in, I will continue to serve under you to the best
of my ability. But I want you to know, here and now, that when we get home I
shall be reporting this disgraceful episode and I will make sure the
perpetrators are caught and that justice is done.'

'That, of course, is your
prerogative,' said Barclay, stiffly. 'But now I want you, fanner, and you, Blackstone,
to shake hands.'

Blackstone thrust out his hand,
smiling amiably at Tanner.

'Christ alive,' muttered
Peploe.

'Tanner?' said Barclay.

'Is it an order, sir?'

'Yes, damn it, it is.'

Tanner held out his hand and
felt Blackstone's grip it.

'Good,' said Barclay, smiling
at last. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?' He stuffed his pipe back into his
mouth, relit it, and then, as sweet-smelling tobacco wafted around him, he
said, 'Now we've got that straight, I can give you our orders. We're to join
the line between here and the Canadian war memorial on the left of Eighth DLI,
or what remains of them. They're covering the line all the way up to Givenchy.'
He cleared his throat. 'We lost a lot of tanks yesterday and there's going to
be no more offensive action for the time being. Our job is to stop the enemy
getting any further.'

'I thought we were going to
rejoin the rest of the battalion, sir,' said Tanner.

'Nothing doing, I'm afraid.
They're still down on the Scarpe to the east of Arras, but with the DLI's losses,
we're to stay and help them. In any case, we no longer have any M/T.'

'And what about food?' asked
Tanner. 'The lads haven't had anything since yesterday morning.'

'Eighth DLI's B Echelon have
set up a kitchen a short way back up the road in the wood. We've been ordered
to pass through it, rather than using roads - Brigade's expecting heavy air
attacks. We're to pick up rations on the way to our positions. All clear?'

Tanner and Peploe nodded.

'Oh, and one last thing,' added
Barclay, 'I've made CSM Blackstone Eleven Platoon commander. He's taking over
from Lieutenant Bourne-Arton with immediate effect.'

Tanner willed himself not to
look at the triumph on Blackstone's face, but something within compelled him to
do so. Standing a little way behind Barclay, Blackstone lit a cigarette and, as
Tanner glanced at him, he smiled and winked - just as Tanner had known he
would.

Four thirty p.m., Thursday, 23
May: orders had arrived that D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers,
along with A and D Companies of 8th Battalion, the Durham Light Infantry, were
to move out of the young woods at Petit Vimy along the ridge to Givenchy, and
from there to join the line on the right of the rest of 8th Battalion to the
north-west of the village.

It was raining, and had been
since mid-morning, alternating between drizzle and a heavier, more persistent
downpour. Some of the men wore their green oilskin anti-gas capes as
mackintoshes, but Tanner felt too restricted in his so he had put on his
leather jerkin. It meant his body was dry still but the damp serge of his
trousers and battle-blouse sleeves scratched his skin.

The weather did nothing to
improve his mood. Being forced to shake Blackstone's hand had been a humiliation
too far. Back at Manston he had promised himself he would make no concessions
until he felt the man had earned his respect and trust. Now he had been ordered
to renege on that vow and forced to shake hands with a man who, two days
before, had had him beaten up, who had accused him of rape, and who had
possibly shot more than forty prisoners in cold blood. A man, he had once felt
certain, who had already tried to kill him at least twice before. To make
matters worse, Barclay had made it quite clear that he felt Tanner and
Lieutenant Peploe were being difficult and churlish, rather than Blackstone.
Tanner had not expected effusive praise, but he felt he had acquitted himself
well enough on the twenty-first; he and the platoon had done everything asked
of them, and more. In contrast, Blackstone had kept his head down and scuttled
off at the first available opportunity. That alone had hardly merited
promotion.

Blackstone had clearly been
preying on Peploe's mind too. The lieutenant had made no secret of his disgust.
'I shouldn't be saying this to you, Tanner,' he had fumed, as they had walked
back to rejoin the platoon, 'but the OC is treating this like some bloody
playground spat. I swear on all I hold dear that I will not let this matter
drop. When we get home, I'm going to make sure it's properly investigated.'
Since then, Peploe had been subdued, not at all the cheerful, easy-going man
Tanner had come to like and respect.

In truth, however, it was not
only Blackstone and the weather: for nearly two days now they had heard increasingly
heavy gunfire to the south, from the eastern side of Arras, where they supposed
the rest of the battalion were still dug in, and from far to the west.
Moreover, it seemed that the
Luftwaffe
had singled them out for particular punishment. Enemy
aircraft had buzzed over almost continually. Already that day they had been
dive- bombed twice. The trees of the young wood, just twenty years old, had
offered some protection, as had their hastily dug slit trenches, but the
attacks grated on the nerves. Every time a Stuka dived, screaming, or a Junkers
88 flew over, roaring, the men crouched into the earth - which was wet and
muddy with all the rain - and prayed no bomb would land on them. Lethal shards
of splintered wood and shrapnel hissed over their heads, while clods of soil
and fragments of stone clattered on top of them, rattling their steel helmets
and working their way down the back of their necks.

They had seen no British or
French aircraft.

'Where's bloody Lyell and his
lot?' Sykes had muttered at one point. 'Surely he's back by now?'

'Just like sodding Norway,'
McAllister had complained. 'Why does Jerry always seem to have more of
everything than us?'

'Search me,' said Sykes.

'I'll tell you what's really
getting on my nerves,' McAllister had said. 'It's this place. Graves everywhere
and sodding shell-holes. The sooner we're out of here the better. Gives me the
creeps.'

Tanner agreed. His father had
fought nearby and wouldn't have thought much about his son being bombed on the
same stretch of troubled land that had been battled over some twenty years
earlier. Through the trees near Petit Vimy, they had seen the tall, white
Canadian war memorial. It was a stark reminder that Tanner could have done
without.

And they were losing - the
German gains could no longer be seen as mere temporary setbacks; rather, Tanner
recognized, the British had most probably been plunged into an irreversible
defeat. He had sensed it in Norway, and he sensed it again now. Of course, he
had
little idea of what was really
going on, but he'd put money on it that few of the top brass did either. There
never seemed to be enough forces in the right place to stem the flow.
Lieutenant Peploe had told him they would be attacking south of Arras with a
composite force of more than two divisions, but there had been nothing of the
sort. As far as he had been able to tell, there had been two infantry
battalions, a handful of tanks and some field and anti-tank guns. Where had the
rest been? And what could they possibly achieve now? They were sitting on this ridge,
supported by a few anti-tank guns, being bombed and blasted and waiting for
Jerry to bring himself up to strength. It was hopeless.

It was still raining as they set off, in companies,
platoons and sections, heads bowed and gas capes glistening, through the woods
towards Givenchy. They passed across the Canadian national park, with its warnings
of unexploded shells, then wove past the memorial and towards Givenchy. As they
trudged down the ridge, Tanner noticed an anti-tank gun battery to the south-east
of the village, below the memorial, and was struck by how poorly camouflaged it
was. An easy spot for any reconnaissance plane, even on a rainy day.

It was as though the
Luftwaffe
had read his thoughts. They were nearing the edge of the village when he heard
the familiar rumble of aero-engines, faint at first, then growing rapidly in
volume, until two dozen Junkers 88s swooped low out of the cloud. 'Take cover!'
he shouted. Men flung themselves into the sodden grassy bank at the side of the
road. A moment later, bombs were falling, a brief whistle then an ear-splitting
crash as they exploded. Tanner lay on the trembling ground, his hands over his
ears. A bigger detonation now ripped the air. More bombs whistled. One man was
screaming. Some in the village were firing, shooting rifles and Brens. The
ground shuddered again and Tanner pressed his head to it, breathing in the
scent of wet grass and earth.

The bombers were soon gone, disappearing into the
cloud. Tanner, with the rest of the men, got to his feet, brushing off damp
blades of grass, and gazed at the village, now shrouded in a veil of dust and
smoke. Several houses were burning, flames flickering through the haze. In the
centre of the village a column of angry black smoke swirled. Cries and shouts
could be heard.

Up ahead, from A and D Companies, orders were barked.
Blackstone gave the command for the Rangers to fall in, and they stood there
for a few minutes, watching the flames, hearing timber burn and masonry
collapse while Captain Barclay went forward for further instructions. He
reappeared a short while later, his face set, and spoke with Blackstone and
Peploe.

'What's happening, sir?' Tanner asked, as Peploe
rejoined the platoon.

'A and D Companies are moving into position
cross-country avoiding the village. We're to go in and help clear up.'

'Better than sitting still in the rain, I suppose.'

In places it was hard to get through. A number of
houses had disintegrated, rubble spewing across the road. The men worked their
way around it and eventually reached the centre of the village. The church was
still intact, but half a dozen homes around it had been destroyed. Choking dust
and smoke filled the air. Tanner wetted his handkerchief, then tied it round
his mouth, encouraging the others to do the same. Near the square, where he had
been attacked three days before, the blackened skeletal frame of a truck
smouldered while at either end of it two more vehicles were ablaze. A sudden
gust swept down the street and the flames leaped, black smoke billowing into
the sky. Soldiers and civilians were coughing and stumbling about, disoriented.
An officer - a signals captain from 5th Division - was scrabbling at bits of
fallen brickwork. 'Come on, give me a bloody hand!' he yelled. 'My men are
under this lot.'

Tanner hurried over to him. 'Sir,' he said, looking at
the wreckage, 'there's nothing we can do.'

'Can't just leave 'em here,' he said, and Tanner
noticed the tears that streaked the grime on his face.

'Sir,' he said again.

The officer stood up and stared at the sky. 'The
murdering bastards,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I had six good men in that
house.' He picked up a broken brick and hurled it.

In the main square there were several large bomb
craters. A few women were screaming while an old lady knelt outside the church,
praying. Tanner saw Peploe and went to him. 'Sir, what are we supposed to be
doing? We can't clear all this rubble.'